Fall of Hemrien
by TheEvilDog
Summary: A six part series detailing how one Imperial Guardsman ended up in the service of the Inquisition. Based on the Dark Heresy RPG. Rated M for violence.
1. Chapter 1

"What in the Golden Throne is the name of this pit and why the feth are **we** here?"

The shrill, nasally tone could only have been Gerns, cutting through the monotonous drone of the Chimera's engine. As usual, the trooper was impatient and bellyaching and getting on the squad's nerves. While it could have been said that each guardsman in the patrol had a useful ability or training, such of Vendric's almost innate knowledge of where mines and traps were kept, or Polin's skill with a grenade launcher, Trooper Gerns' sole talent seemed to be annoying his squad mates.

As usual though, the squad ignored him, preferring to check their weapons, securing their webbing or in the case of Trooper Polin, snoring loudly. They all knew he'd get bored soon enough, until then, the easiest thing to do would be to just will themselves through it. Or they would have, until Vanghast "accidently" kicked Gerns in the head as he climbed down from the Chimera's cupola, drawing a stifled laugh from Troopers Benner, Glatch and Kalt.

"Quiet you lot! We're coming up on the target." Sergeant Joller came in from the driver's compartment. The sergeant's face was locked into a permanent sneer after an Ork's choppa glanced his cheek during combat on Spicer's World, destroying much of his jaw, leaving exposed muscle and teeth. "Vanghast, what did you see up there?"

Trasken Vanghast took a swig of his water canteen, the high winds of the Bad Lands meant that men could only spend a few moments in the turret before the heat and dehydration would force them back into the shade. Taking another swig of water, the guardsman removed his helmet and ran his hand over the stubble that lined his chin.

"Not much, the wind is too thick. But we are approaching the site; I could see a couple of the outlying buildings with the magnoculars."

Vanghast was Joller's second, the squad's point man, clad in Procyon flak armour, reinforced at key points with small carapace plates. Grim, as always, the guardsman proceeded to load his autogun as Joller briefed the rest of the squad. Pulling a dataslate from his flak vest, the sergeant motioned the men closer.

"Command has received word that one of the way stations here has not reported in for three check-ins. It's happened a couple of times before, the winds knocking out the communications array. This should be easy enough, but I want the lot of y-" Joller wiped away a sliver of drool from his jaw, as it was wont to do when he spoke more than the barest sentences. "-to do this by the numbers. Vanghast, take Benner and Glatch with you and investigate the eastern section of the compound, get to the vox array, see if anything happened."

The three nodded, Benner and Glatch setting their lasguns to high charge.

"Kalt, you, Gerns and Vendric will take the west to the barracks. Varco, Polin and-" Another line of drool wiped away. "-I will investigate the station itself. Dstano and Lyner will stay here with the Chimera and man the heavy weapons."

The squad nodded in agreement, save for Polin, who was still asleep until Kalt and Benner kicked him. The reward of waking him were a number of half-awake comments questioning what species their respective mothers were and a hand gesture that made both men laugh even harder.

Joller snapped at them, the open sneer of his cheek seemed even more intense. "Get serious and fast or walk back! This is not a furlough, we are going into a potentially dangerous situation. Take the safeties off and keep the microbeads open. We've arrived."

The sergeant was right, as the Chimera slowed, eventually coming to a halt several hundred yards from the compound. The squad made some last preparations, stuffing spare lasgun clips into their flak vests as Polin loaded his grenade launcher with his usual frag grenades. Each man hoped that Murragh and his squad had just gotten drunk and seeing off a hangover. Each man also knew that the battle to retake Hemrien had forced the cultists to flee into the hills; that the enemy had not been wiped out yet and that any situation could mean a sign of a new offensive. Each man silently offered a prayer to the Emperor that it was the former.

The rear hatch of the Chimera opened, Vanghast and Benner the first two out, securing the area as the others fanned out. Each trooper moved flawlessly, weapons ready and scanning the area before splitting into their search teams without a word, a sign of the bond each man had developed since the Founding of their regiment six years before. Trasken, Benner and Glatch moved towards the old shed containing the vox array. Thankfully the compound was shielded from the winds, as only a few wispy tendrils of dust flew in the wind.

The compound was eerily quiet, few sounds save for the heavy footfalls of the Procyon troopers on the desert ground. As they neared the vox array, Vanghast raised his hand, balled into a fist before indicating Glatch and Benner to the sides of the door with swift movements of his fingers. The two wordlessly moved to their positions, Glatch's hand on the door handle as Trasken took his position before the door, his autogun ready; the under-slung light-pack switched on. Glatch opened the door slightly as Trasken pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of his autogun.

There seemed to be little wrong in the run down shack, but for the lack of power. The beam of light from the autogun swept across the room, searching for something, anything that might explain what had happened.

As the light continued towards the long range vox caster unit, Trasken found it.

A severed hand rested on the vox caster's receiver, leaving a trail of darkened crimson across the controls.

As Benner caught sight of the hand, he began to mutter "My Emperor, Saviour Unto Thee" under his breath as Vanghast tapped the microbead in his ear.

"We found something in the vox caster, hostiles possibly still in the area, switching to a lethal solution. Repeat, switching to a lethal solution."

A dull crumping sound in the main building was the reply.

Running across the compound, Glatch tried to contact Joller over the microbead as Benner and Vanghast hugged the wall. "What do you think it is?" Benner rasped behind Vanghast, slipping a bayonet onto his lasgun.

The trooper glanced back, hissing at his squadmate. "I don't know. I was with you two, remember! Just make sure those flashlights of yours are on full power." Like most pointmen in the regiment, Vanghast carried a different weapon that the standard Mars Pattern Lasgun, the troopers preferring weapons that offered a heavier punch without compromising their ability to move quickly. In his case, Vanghast used the Lethe pattern Autogun, although he knew he could never last in as long in protracted firefight as his lasgun armed squadmates, he also knew that with the autogun if he shot something, it would stay down.

Holding the weapon close, Trasken lead the two guardsmen into the main building of the compound and immediately confronted by the signs of battle. Small arms fire dotted the walls, the tell-tale mark of a flamer seared onto the plasteel walls. Streaks of crimson seemed

"Feth! Why didn't they call for back up?" It was Glatch, bringing his lasgun to his shoulder. A question that Vanghast asked himself as well. A light plume of smoked billowed from one of the rooms ahead. Quickly switching the lamp-pack from his autogun with a three round underslung shotgun, Trasken motioned to the door, whispering to the pair. "I don't know, but we're about to find out."

The three guardsmen fanned into the room and found a scene of carnage, the pungent pang of fyclene and blood hanging in the air. What had presumably once been Varco lay before them, the only recognisable part of him was a tattoo of the Imperial Aquila he had gotten on his cheek during the Founding.

Whatever tore him apart had done it quickly, and most likely still in the area. Keeping close together, the three guardsmen swept the room and found Polin, his ribcage torn apart, his grenade launcher still by his side. Behind them, a noise caused Glatch to turn around, his lasgun brought to bear as the others kept to their respective fields of fire. "Contact!"

All three weapons aimed at the target as Joller stumbled into view. Injuries raked across his body, a bloody mess where his left arm used to be. The sergeant tried to speak, only his torn and ruin throat bubbled up a thick, bloody foam before several shadowed shapes crashed into him and continued to tear at him.

"FETH!"

Vanghast, Benner and Glatch opened fire, the staccato bursts of the autogun joined by the dry snaps of the lasguns as they fired into the shapes before them. Joller was already dead as the shapes stood up, even as they were being taken apart by the rounds and energy shots hit them. There was a vaguely human shape to them, painfully confirmed as the first stepped into the light. MkNam, one of Murragh's troopers, hissed at the three, half his face gone as his charged. The former MkNam managed two steps before the boom of Trasken's shotgun exploded his head. Four more of Murragh's squad scrambled forward into the gunfire.

"FETH!" Roared Trasked as he unloaded another shotgun round into Murragh. "FALL BACK YOU TWO! NOW!"

MkNam's headless body rose again and joined the press of the assault as Trasken's autogun made a loud, empty click as the clip ran dry.


	2. Chapter 2

The stock of the autogun connected with Joller's jaw, smashing what was left of the sergeant's ruined face, and knocking him onto the ground when Vanghast brought his boot down on the head of what was once his friend. Benner and Glatch had fallen back to the corridor, pouring las bolt after las bolt into the bodies that kept approaching. In the few moments since the attack started, it had become blatantly obvious that the lasguns were simply not doing much damage, the las bolts were just punching through dead flesh. The only weapons that seemed to have any real effect were Trasken's solid rounds and the fury of the attack meant that he was unable to reload without opening himself to attack.

Just before Murragh, at least that's who Trasken thought was attacking him, tried to bite his arm, the trooper head-butted the creature, his helmet smashing what was left of its rotten face. As Murragh stumbled back, growling and flailing its distending limbs, Trasken pinned the creature as he pulled a tube charge from his jacket and shoved the explosive into Murragh's mouth. Returning with a growl of his own, Trasken lifted the creature up by its own flak jacket and ripped off a piece of det-tape before pushing it back towards the other creatures trying to get to Benner and Glatch. Both men could see what Trasken had done and were ducking for cover even before he gave the command. Diving out into the corridor, the three troopers shielded themselves as the tube charge exploded, obliterating the room and the creatures that had Joller and Murragh's squad.

Breathing hard, Vanghast slammed another clip into the autogun as Glatch tried to pull Benner to his feet. His ears rang from the explosion, the guardsman sure that someone was trying to contact him over the microbead. Shaking his head as he rose to his feet, Trasken spun on his feet to make sure they had killed the creatures, and almost fell as he lost his balance. Swearing under his breathe, Trasken nodded to the others and backed away slowly before turning once more to lead the way from the building. The microbead crackled to life, Kalt was screaming into his ear, now cutting through the ringing like the shriek of the Watchowls from their home world. "TRASKEN! JOLLER! WHAT THE FETH IS HAPPENING OVER THERE? COME IN!"

"We've encountered hostiles; Joller is dead as is Murragh's squad. I repeat Joller is dead. Get out of the barracks and get back to the Chimera now!" Trasken barked into the microbead as he kicked open the door leading outside scanning for more hostiles. He was greeted by the sight of Kalt and Vendric running towards them, Vendric holding his arm close to his chest as Kalt supported him. Behind them, several mutated shapes bounded behind them, Gerns amongst them, a wild, murderous look in his eyes as his skin buckled and tore. Almost immediately Trasken and Glatch opened fire on the mob as Benner moved to intercept Kalt and Vendric.

A roar to their left distracted Glatch for a second as the squad's chimera burst into view between the Guardsmen and the mob, Lyner manning the tank's heavy stubber while Dstano slewed the vehicle to a halt. Screaming an oath to the Emperor, Lyner opened fire, the heavy staccato of the stubber drowning out the screams of the mutants as they were torn apart.

Throwing Glatch towards the tank, Trasken fired a last burst at a creature's legs while Benner opened the hatch, helping Vendric into the tank. Kalt climbed in after the pair and called to Glatch and Trasken. Trasken was the last in as the Chimera sped away from the compound, leaving the ghoulish scene behind.

Someone vomited, it sounded like Benner, though it was difficult to tell over the engines thumping. No one spoke in the transport compartment as Lyner dropped down, his face ashen, unable to comprehend what had happened. "Where are the…" Lyner began, stopping himself as the realisation dawned on him. He had shot Gerns himself, though there was little of the trooper left, only a murderous creature, so angry and rage filled it could not tell it was dead, it just kept walking into the storm of bullets.

Trasken looked at the others; Glatch was just staring into his hand while Benner kept his head between his knees. Kalt was trying to bandage Vendric's arm, the trooper looking pale, a sheen of sweat covering his brow. Kneeling beside Vendric, Trasken tried to keep him steady as Kalt tried to explain what had happened. They had entered the generator building and had begun to investigate when they heard the explosion from what they realised was Polin's grenade launcher. As they tried to get back outside, they had taken a wrong turn and ended up in the generator room, where they had found the rest of Murragh's squad, and several others, feeding on the way stations servitors. Gerns had died almost immediately, his neck broken by the swing of the largest creature, swathed in rags. Vendric had managed to kill it with a lucky las bolt to its head, unfortunately as it died, the creature spasmed, its clawed hand slashing Vendric's arm. Pulling him out of the room, Kalt and Vendric escaped the building, where they had run into Trasken and the others.

"I… I can feel something in me… It burns." Vendric wheezed, before his body was wracked in a coughing spree, slowing down to a painful sob. "It's happening to me, Trasken. Awww feth me I can feel it."

Trasken leaned in closer to his friend. The pair had grown up in the same settlement on Procyon, inseparable as boys; they had joined the Planetary Defence Force before being mustered into the Imperial Guard. They had been as different as night and day, Trasken Vanghast, a face like stone, grim and foreboding, closely cut black hair topping his head. Kerl Vendric, by contrast, was as warm as Procyon's main sun, welcoming with a soft face. The only commonality both men had was the curious shade of brown eyes that was predominant on their world. It was these eyes Trasken stared into as his friend begged him to grant him the Emperor's Benediction. "I saw it with Gerns." Vendric pleaded. "I don't want to become like them! Please, Van, end this before I turn!"

Kalt protested, but stopped as Vendric was wracked by a powerful spasm, his injured arm distending, the wound splitting further. Trasken held him down and reluctantly nodded in agreement. Relieved, Vendric smiled and raised his uninjured hand to Trasken's shoulder. "To Protect the Imperium - "

Sighing, Trasken unholstered his autopistol and placed it against Vendric's chest. Benner looked away as Glatch stared in silence. "- To Serve the Emperor." Finishing the regiment's motto, Trasken Vanghast squeezed the trigger.

Vendric's body convulsed once before Trasken placed the barrel of the pistol against his head and squeezed the trigger once more.

"What do we do now?" Lyner asked, looking at Vendric's body.

"Get me Command on the vox. They need to know what happened. Some of those creatures seemed to be dressed like those cultists. If this is a new attack or something else, they need to know." Trasken stood up; bracing himself against the tank's jolting. Taking Vendric's backpack, the trooper opened it out, and with the help from Kalt got Vendric's body into it. It was standard gear for each Procyon Guardsman; each backpack served a number of functions, equipment storage, rain suit, sleeping bag, and in the end, a body bag.

Lyner nodded and unhooked the vox-caster's head set; turning the dial to the frequency Command had set for all patrolling Procyon squads. After a brief crackle of static, Lyner had gotten through, handing the set to Trasken.

"This is squad 132, under Sergeant Joller. This is Corporal Vanghast reporting. We have encountered hostiles at Station bl/73. We've suffered causalities, including Sergeant Joller. I have taken command of the unit and are currently en-route back to base."

The receiver crackled an acknowledgement, asking for an estimated time of arrival. Colonel Larn and Commissar Wollt would be waiting for the debriefing.

Trasken Vanghast still felt sick to his stomach.

Not because of the deaths his squad had suffered or his putting Vendric out of his misery.

Not because of the report he would have to make.

It wasn't the thought that Commissar Wollt would probably execute him for getting his men away to safety.

It was the thought of what happened at the way station could possibly happen elsewhere.

Bowing his head, Trasken offered a silent prayer to the Emperor of Mankind that wouldn't happen.

The prayer offered no comfort.


	3. Chapter 3

The Commercia was awash with blood, the screams of the dying slowly being drowned out by the groans of the infected. It still wasn't clear how the infected were able to breach the city's perimeter, now it wasn't important. _Staying alive. That's all that matters._

Firing off a quick burst from his autogun, Trasken sprinted through the winding streets. Ducking into a doorway, the trooper tried to catch his breath, switching the half empty clip with a fresh one. Glancing at his chronometer, he was shocked to discover the incident had only begun twenty eight hours ago, standard. _Twenty eight hours? No… That….that would have meant the colonel and Wollt died… No, it can't be that short a time…_

The groans of the infected echoed through the wide streets, snapping Trasken back to reality, the trooper already running. Twenty eight hours earlier the infection was spotted in a slum on the southern edge of the city, some of the workers falling ill quickly. By the time the regiment's medical staff arrived the infected had died and come back and killed Medics Yong and Tremmin, as well as their escort.

Twenty seven hours ago four Hellhound tanks were brought in and burned everything down, but by then the contagion was spreading through the city.

Twenty five hours ago, Colonel Larn had ordered the regiment to set up a perimeter around the spaceport and the regimental barracks. Demolition teams were sent to destroy the major exits from the city, the Emperor's Way Bridge in the west of the city, and the highway in the north. Of the six teams sent out, only one returned, the teams overwhelmed by the infected. One team managed to destroy several hundred by detonating their explosives on the bridge. Thirty lives were lost, including Lyner and Dstano, ensuring that none could leave the city.

Twenty two hours ago, Colonel Larn and nine hundred and forty men were killed as the infected swarmed the regimental barracks. They most likely would have held out, possibly even defeating the horde except for one trooper, driven mad by having seen his team torn apart charged into the barrack's magazine and detonated it. Most of the troopers inside were killed in the explosion, Kalt amongst them; the few dazed survivors were set upon as the infected poured into the breach.

Trasken and his newly assigned squad had been sent to locate and extract Imperial citizens, to bring them to the spaceport when the barracks fell. The force of the explosion had rocked the Chimera; several of the citizens panicked and desperately tried to exit the vehicle. One, a scribe, pasty and near blind by a life spent copying books and scrolls, frantically scrambled over the Chimera's hatch and released the lock, tumbling out into the street along with Trooper Castor and several other citizens. They were set upon almost immediately by the Infected as vox channels had taken to call them before Command fell. Castor had managed to kill three of them before he was leapt upon by one, the others easily tearing him and the civilians apart.

Trasken bawled out to the driver to move, unloading his autogun into the horde as a trooper, he couldn't remember who in the chaos, tried to close the hatch. By the time the trooper had the hatch closed the Chimera was surrounded by Infected, crying out for blood, hammering their fists against the tank's hull. Praying to the Machine God to grant them a little more power, the driver ploughed the tank through the horde. Whether or not the Machine God heard them didn't matter as blinded by the press of bodies the Chimera crashed into one of Hemrien's canal networks, the water long since gone. Right before Trasken was flung across the inside of the tank, the trooper slammed another clip into the autogun and started muttering a prayer to the Emperor.

That was twenty two hours ago.

Eighteen hours ago, Trasken awoke to the feeling of water dripping onto his hand. Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet, the rain spattering across his face. Looking around, his world dazed and spinning, Trasken found himself the only living person in the tank. The driver, Ceggan was dead, his head smashed against the Chimera's steering column. The trooper who had closed the hatch was also dead, he, like several others, had suffered a broken neck. What had almost puzzled him was the fact that there were fewer people in the compartment than when they had crashed. It was then he realised where the rain was coming from, the cupola of the tank had been opened, the sky above dark grey and foreboding. Whoever had survived must have seen him unconscious and decided to leave him behind. The irony was not lost on Trasken that he would have done the same thing had the roles been switched.

Trasken turned at the Vox-caster and fell back dejected as he found the machine smashed in the crash. Unable to stay, the trooper searched amongst the wreckage for anything he could salvage, a bottle of promethium and several matches, six frag grenades, as well as several clips for his autogun. There was little else he could take with him, save the medikit, and that he used to tend to his injuries, binding the wound to his head and the lacerations to his face and arms. Knocking back several painkillers with some of his personal reserve of amasec, Trasken clambered out of the wrecked Chimera and set off.

And for the past seventeen hours, Trasken made his way across the city towards the spaceport of Hope's Fall; picking across the ruins that the previous conflict had left behind. Occasionally he would come across small groups of the Infected, usually feasting on some unfortunate soul. He took them down with short, quick bursts.

It almost turned his stomach when he realised that some of those he killed were men and women he had served with from the Founding of the regiment. Each was someone he could have trusted to watch over him in combat, and yet each one he killed, tore into him. Harner, a sniper in Major McKeon's company had saved Trasken during the pacification, obliterating a cultist's head that had lined up Trasken in its sights. And now he had killed Harner with a headshot as he devoured on an arm. _Never got the chance to thank him._

Sighing once more, Trasken made his way back into the city.

Here he was now, running through the Commercia, desperately seeking a means to contact Command or someway to get out of the city. Water and some dried Grox meat he found in an overturned stall had helped Trasken keep his spirits up. Drinking the last few drops of water, Trasken had estimated he was at least an hour away from a maglev line that could take him to the spaceport. _No rest for the wicked, as they say._

Running across a street, autogun raised up, Trasken began to mutter a prayer to the Emperor, before throwing himself against a wall. Catching his breath he could hear the pained groans that had become synonymous with the Infected. It sounded like just one, a blessing considering they usually moved in groups, the Guardsman lowered his autogun and unholstered his autopistol. It was times like this he almost hated using auto-weapons, normally it would only take a quick burst to scare most people into submission, and it was more satisfying to see a wild cultist be brought down. Las-weapons were quiet, a low dry snap as they fired. Now, he wished he had a laspistol, the last thing he wanted was drawing several of the Infected down upon himself. He knew he was a decent close combatant, but given how virulent the Infected were, he didn't want to take the chance.

Closing his eyes, Trasken breathed in quickly several times, readying himself to take a shot. He had to converse ammunition. One shot. One quick turn around the corner and take the shot.

He moved, turning the corner and firing, a single loud crack from the autopistol and the Infected collapsed. Quickly replacing the autopistol for the autogun, Trasken moved forward, training the weapon for other targets.

Rounding the corner of a relatively intact Guildhall, Trasken Vanghast staggered to a halt. Before him were hundreds of the Infected, shuffling and groaning before several of them noticed him, moving towards him. Several of the more recently infected were still mobile enough to sprint towards him.

"Ah feth!"

He began firing.


	4. Chapter 4

His muscles screamed, his sinew cried out in agony as his lungs burned for air. None of it matter to him as he sprinted from the horde, pushing his body harder and faster. Leaping over a stretch of rubble, Trasken's eyes darted back and forth as he searched for an exit. He knew he couldn't outrun them for much longer, if he didn't find somewhere to hide, the Infected would tear him apart. He rounded a corner; a long, narrow brickwork street dotted with debris and boarded doors, save for one, battered and broken in.

Briefly smiling to himself, Trasken summoned the last reserves of energy and sprinted down the street, his arms and shoulders scrapping against the close walls. Even over his laboured, pained breathing, he could hear the cries and groans of the Infected behind him, out of sight, but close. The door seemed so far away; that no matter how much he ran, it was still out of reach, his strength leaving him every step. Gritting his teeth Trasken leapt the last few yards towards the door, scrambling over the frame and rolling to the side. The guardsman kept rolling towards a corner hidden in shadows, several crates nearby where he braced himself, autogun raised, keeping to the shadows.

Realising his hands were shaking, Trasken tried to steady himself, the adrenaline that had fuelled him previously was now gone, leaving him gasping for breath and having to deal the enormity of what had just happened. A few moments before, he had turned a corner and was confronted by a horde of hundreds of Infected, several of them charging him. He knew he had taken those first few down, he also know that having emptied one clip before falling back that the ones who charged him weren't dead, only crippled as they tried to crawl after him. It had been the Emperor's own luck that he had managed to outpace them without at least one grabbing him. He had escaped for the time being, he hoped, but it just became more urgent for him to get out of the city. Trasken knew that eventually he would be that fraction too slow, or miss that one Infected that was too close. His injuries weren't severe, yet, but each minor injury drained him, leaving him easily tired.

Trying to control his breathing, Trasken kept himself still and in the shadows as he heard the approaching horde. For several moments the sounds of shuffling feet and excruciating groans thundered in his ears, each second that passed brought with it the fear of being discovered. Another second and he would be devoured, torn limb from limb. A silent prayer, a final benediction to the Emperor left Trasken's lips.

It took him a moment to realise that there was silence around him now, the horde gone, leaving the guardsman alone. Closing his eyes, Trasken breathed a sigh of relief, his tensed shoulders and muscles relaxing as he slumped into the corner. Opening his eyes, he looked around the room, now taking the time to see what had offered him shelter. It had once been a weaponsmith's, the chambers small, cramped and tight, barely enough room for the smith and an apprentice or two. Daring to stand up on weakened legs, Trasken gingerly began to search the chamber, taking care not to make too much noise. The smith's had long since been abandoned, and looted sometime after, leaving little that he could have used. A few shotgun shells in a crate here, autogun rounds in a drawer there. He smirked to himself, praising the Departmento Munitorum for its standardising all ammunition as he pocketed what he could, refilling his spent magazines with the autogun rounds. There was nothing left except for a roll of black, heavy duty tape which Trasken quickly used to bind pairs of magazines together.

Stuffing the tape into his backpack, Trasken took the autopistol from its holster and his combat knife from his belt. The cramped confines of the area meant that he couldn't rely on the rifle, the prospect of hand to hand with one of those creatures terrified him. He laughed softly, almost wishing that Commissar Wollt was here, crying out Imperial propaganda and threatening him with a bolt round to the head for feeling fear. Smiling to himself and shaking his head, Trasken flattened himself beside the door, using the mirror sheen of the combat knife to be certain that there were no more of the Infected outside.

Swearing to himself, Trasken dipped down and began to cover the blade with dust and dirt from the floor. _Damn basic mistake! Combat situation, dull polished metal and any bright areas, don't give them a target!_ Trasken scanned his uniform, now eager to dull anything that might get him spotted, the buckles for his belt and holster, the equipment clips, the regimental pin. All were quickly covered in grime and dirt as Trasken stood up and took a chance, stepping out of the weapon smith's into the narrow street. It appeared his luck held, the Guardsman was alone, the Infected had moved on, leaving him behind, tired, dirty and eager to get away.

_It'd be stupid to follow them. Need to find another route._

Lowering himself to a crouched position, Trasken slipped a hand into a thigh pocket and withdrew a small paper map, scrolling his finger to find his location. _Alright. Still in the Commercia. _Risking taking his eyes away from the street, he trailed his finger along the graphite lines, and pointedly tapped the page. _Follow the northern canal, should take me near the Maglev line, and it should keep me in cover._

Trasken ran down the street, turning into an alley. As he ran, his mind turned back to the briefing they had received when they had made planetfall. Hemrien was once a temperate "civilised" world; the citizens had lived in seven cities, dotted around the planet's equator. He couldn't remember the names, never could, all he knew was that they were a pain to pronounce properly. Before the planet fell to the cultists, the first city, where the Planetary Governor held his seat and where he was now, produced medicae supplies for the Imperium. The other cities had apparently produced a hardened plasteel material, foodstuffs and a promethium based fuel. The other cities had also been destroyed in the battles for Hemrien; the first city had almost been reduced to a rubble strewn ruin, leaving Trasken thankful for cover as he made his way to the canal. It had once been a source of pride for the citizens that they had a beautiful knot work of canals across their cities, weaving between the streets and alleys.

Dropping down into the ankle deep brackish water, Trasken was just glad that he didn't have to worry about crossing the streets anymore, the high walls providing him with cover and shade. Breaking into a light gait, Trasken followed the canal's structure, pausing at corners and turns to ensure there were no more surprises awaiting him. Twice he had to deal with an infected creature that lurked in canal. The first was a particularly heinous looking beast, its left armed now a solid mass of muscle and spines, what was left of its head was sunken into its shoulder. It had been unaware of him at first, only slowly turning after the first four rounds slammed into its back revealing an all-too-human face, mewling in pain before Trasken's next burst caused it's head to explode and drop.

The second was lurking in a pool of water knee deep. It had tried grabbing his leg as Trasken moved across, biting into the leather of his boot, before Trasken broke free and repeatedly kicked its head in a rage. Leaning against the wall, he sighed in relief as the creature's teeth hadn't pierced the boot leather.

Sensing he was getting close, Trasken looked around and jumped up, gripping the top of the canal's wall and lifted himself up to get a look. Sure it was clear, the guardsman rolled over the top, scanning for the Maglev station and sprinted towards it when he spotted it.

Passing through the doors, he looked back to make sure he wasn't spotted or followed. Certain he was safe, Trasken dropped to the floor and coughed in exhaustion. _Going to need some water and fast._

Picking himself up, Trasken raised the autogun and moved into the shadowy halls of the station. Each maglev supposedly brought supplies to and from the spaceport, and each was powered by a geothermal generation hidden beneath the city. The real trick for him would be to find how to get the train moving…If he could. He knew well enough that the rites of ignition would probably be beyond him, but it was either try, or fail and die there.

He passed several rooms through the station, sweeping each for the Infected, looking for supplies. Each was empty, save for a supervisor's office, old data slates strewn on a nalwood desk. Knocking over a box, he found a number of bottles of a clear liquid. Relying on basic training, Trasken opened one of the bottles and sniffed it. _Odourless._ He then poured a little onto the floor, pleased that there was no reaction. _This day just got a little better._

The barrel was pressed into the back of his head, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a shotgun round being racked into position.

"Don't move, scum!"

_Ah feth!_


	5. Chapter 5

"Don't move, scum!"

"I'm not sick."

"Don't. Move. Scum!" Each word was spat out, a command enforced by the barrel hitting him in the back of the head. A second hit made him angry. The third hit made Trasken spin around, knocking the shotgun away with his elbow as his fist came around, impacting against the face of the shotgun's owner, knocking him down. In an instant, his autopistol was out, aimed at his assailant's head.

"All I wanted was! A! Fething! Bottle! Of! WATER!" He roared the last words at the fallen assailant, noting the black, heavy carapace armour he was wearing, no markings or insignia.

A new voice spoke up, calm, collected and followed by a click as a hammer was drawn back. "I'm sure that can be arranged. Now, if you wouldn't mind take your gun away from my bodyguard's head, I would appreciate it very much."

Sighing to himself, Trasken closed his eyes and stepped away, holstering the autopistol, holding his hands behind his head. _Stupid mistake. Didn't clear the room. Well I deserve this…_

The calm voice spoke again, and Trasken saw him, an old man, well past his eighties stood before him, though still surprisingly healthy and hale. He was clad in ornate robes, the once bright white material now stained with dirt, grime and blood and carried a heavy stub revolver, still aimed at Trasken, unwavering. All the while the old man still had a warm and pleasant smile, at contrast with the numerous scars and bionic work that crisscrossed his wizened face. "There's a good man. Thank you. Sevrin, are you able to get up?"

The bodyguard was on his feet immediately, scooping up his shotgun and aiming it at Trasken, growling at him, waiting for the command to pull the trigger.

"Oh there is no need for that Sevrin. Not yet anyway. Regina, would you come here?"

A woman approached from one of the other rooms, wearing the traditional blood red robes of a medicae officer. Her face was hidden beneath a large cowl, as she opened a pouch on her side, removing a thin wand device and moved towards Trasken. The woman waved the device over the guardsman before insert the tip into his arm, drawing blood. Trasken grimaced and stared at the old man, who in turn kept smiling. "Painful, isn't it?"

"He seems to be uninfected sire." The woman bowed slightly and backed away, the old man lowered his weapon and nodded the bodyguard to do the same. The old man relaxed and motioned Trasken to do the same, pointing towards the crate.

"Go ahead; I assure you the water if fine. But if you wouldn't mind tell me who you are and what you are doing here?" The old man sat down and stroked his robes flat.

Wary, Trasken picked up another bottle of water and took a cautious sip. "My name is Trasken Vanghast. I'm with the Procyon VIII Heavy Infantry Regiment, under Colonel Larn."

Smiling, the old man nodded and adjusted his robe again, almost uninterested in what Trasken was saying. "You still haven't told me what you were doing here. I trust you didn't desert, I would hate to waste ammunition doling out executions. That would be the remit of your regiment's commissars."

"No" Trasken sneered, already sick of the old man. "I was ordered to accompany a squad to extract several adepts and members of the Adminstratum. There was….an incident and I am the only one left. I was trying to get to the space port, get back to command."

"Like a good guardsman. I commend you for that. I take it those," The old man nodded to Trasken's bandaged forearms "were from that _incident?_"

"Yes sir. The Chimera we were in crashed. A few lacerations and I didn't want to attract too much attention. Now, it's my turn to ask. Who the feth are you?"

The old man smiled again, the lines of his face deepening as he stood up. "I am Alexandre Van Hagan; I am with the Officio Medicae. My bodyguard, you have already met. And the young lady here is my apprentice."

"Officio Medicae? Well, isn't that nice. Just so you know, I think you and your fellows are _just_ a little late." Trasken's face slowly began to contort in rage, the bottle of water cracking and buckling in his hands as they balled in controlled anger.

The old man shrugged nonchalantly. "My apologies, but we only landed planetside only a few scant hours before the outbreak occurred. As for why we are still here, my work required me to collect some samples. There were originally more of us, but, well, you can understand they have been taken to the Emperor's side."

"The Emperor protects" Trasken intoned, the apprentice and the bodyguard repeating the prayer in unison.

"Which brings us to our current situation," The old man nodded to the others, the pair silently leaving the room. When he was certain they were suitably far enough away, Van Hagan turned back to Trasken. "there is the possibility that you are the last trooper left alive from your regiment. We were able to remain in contact with a Commissar of yours, Wollt, I believe, for a few hours. That was until our comms liaison was killed. When we were able to find a vox-caster, we tried contacting your commissar again. Alas, we received no signal or response from them."

The bottle dropped as Trasken nodded slightly and closed his eyes for a moment. "So, there is a possibility we're stuck here, is that it?"

The old man perked up slightly and patted the Guardsman's shoulder. "Oh, no. We need someone to work the vox-caster. Turns out neither myself or my bodyguards are adept with using the blasted thing. Come with us, the caster is on the Mag-Lev. Besides which, we are both going in the same direction, we could use another gun. And you seem to have survived by yourself in the city; you must be blessed by the Emperor."

"Maybe I'm skilled…"

Van Hagan smiled, the toothy grin reminding Trasken of the Carnodons from the Northern Procyia Mountains. The smile lingered for a moment as the old man pulled a heavy hood over his head, giving the appearance of an avian's skull. "My boy, if you were truly skilled, you would have been an officer and not sent out into the city. Now, come along, the Mag-Lev is waiting."

Getting the Mag-Lev running had been a simple affair, the old man had simply waved a data slate over the instrumentation in the driver's carriage and intoned a prayer to the Machine Spirit that controlled the six carriage transporter.

The vox-caster had been more trouble. He had no idea of the mysteries of the technology and wished to cause the machine spirit no offense, but even he could see that the vox-caster needed a new power pack. Sighing to himself, Trasken slumped down on one of the benches. Van Hagan and his bodyguard were standing in the driver's carriage, their hands making quick, deft movements. Occasionally the bodyguard glanced back and stared daggers at Trasken.

"You'll have to forgive Sevrin. He has served our master for many years and is wary of people."

The apprentice had sat next to Trasken and had started to peel away the bandages that covered his arm and began to treat the injuries. Once the lacerations were cleansed, the young woman pulled a small canister from a pouch and sprayed. Trasken hissed, drawing a glance from the bodyguard and a small giggle from Regina. "Perhaps I forgot to tell you that would sting. Well, you did a passable job, it seems like there will be no scars."

"My thanks."

He could see a hint of a smile under the hood, and suddenly realised the Mag-Lev was beginning to slow down, Regina perking up. "Ah, we're here."

The scene before them as they exited the Mag-Lev reminded Trasken of something from a nightmare. It was the only way his mind could comprehend what was before him. Dozens of his comrades and friends lay broken across the compound. Small arms fire had dotted the walls, scorch marks marred the ground. Regina made the mark of the Aquila and repeated a prayer to the Emperor.

Sevrin stepped forward, the shotgun braced against his shoulder with Trasken following behind. Both men swept the area and waved the others over. Trasken tapped his microbead, trying to contact any other guardsmen.

None replied.

Van Hagan consulted the data slate and showed it to the others. "The space port appears to be open. The transport is already on its way down, so I suggest we get out of here now."

Trasken nodded and took point. Priority one was when the regiment landed was every guardsman knew the spaceport like the back of his hand. Sevrin sneered and stomped forward, slamming Trasken against the wall and indicated that he would lead. The guardsman nodded and let the black-clad bodyguard to lead the way.

The way was clear, save for the bodies they came across in the corridors. Once, Van Hagan stopped by a body, bent down and took a sample. As distasteful as Trasken found the practise, he knew that whatever had caused this chaos would be dealt with. What had struck him as strange though was the manner in which the troops here had been killed. In the city, the others had been bitten or torn apart, yet here they had looked as though they had just been swept aside like ragdolls. Shaking his head to try and dismiss the shadowy ideas of what had killed his fellow guardsmen; Trasken began to hear something as they approached the landing pad. Whatever it was, Sevrin heard it too as he motioned to Van Hagan and Regina to get to the pad.

No sooner had the pair left the room that they heard it, the bestial roar. So low and deep it had begun to hurt Trasken's ears. Whatever it was, it was big, loud and coming for them.

"I've got tube charges, but we can't use them here. We need to get to somewhere open."

"Agreed, but the only choice is the landing pad."

"Feth. You go first, I'll set up a…."

The rest of the sentence was lost as a wall exploded, knocking Trasken and Sevrin down. The dust swirled around it, Trasken only catching glimpses as he tried to stand up. A mountain of putrid flesh and exposed muscle. The stench nearly knocked him down, gagging and nearly vomiting. Stumbling away, he thought he saw Sevrin standing up, only realising that the bodyguard was at a strange angle and still stunned. Before he could do anything, the creature had lifted Sevrin in one swift movement and bit the bodyguard in half.

Trasken pushed himself to his feet and reached into his flak vest, pulling a piece of det-tape from a tube charge. By now the creature, clear from the dust and finishing what was left of Sevrin. It was then Trasken realised it wasn't one creature, but dozens of bodies fused together into one monstrous form. Steeling himself, Trasken braced himself and pulled the tube charge.

The creature peered at the guardsman and roared.

"YEAH? WELL FETH YOU TOO!"

Trasken threw the charge.


	6. Chapter 6

The tube charge struck the creature's arm and became lodged in the twitching mass of bodies that made up the daemonic limb. Scant seconds later, the charge exploded, tearing the limb apart in a shower of ichor and an inhuman cry of pain. The force of the explosion had lifted Trasken and thrown him several feet down the corridor. Battered and covered in a thin layer of dust, the guardsman staggered to his feet and tried to clear his clouded vision by shaking his head. Ducking down to search for his autogun, blindly groping in the cloud of dust only to find his fingertips meeting broken metal, the shattered remains of the weapon laid in pieces on the ground.

Swearing to himself, the guardsman stumbled back, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for a door to escape through. A bestial roar made the decision for him and he ran, crashing against the walls of the corridor. The blast had disorientated him, unable to remember if he was running towards the command centre or the landing pad. Fumbling with a keypad, Trasken tried to open the bulkhead, desperately keying in the right code. Behind him the corridor disintegrated as the creature searched for him, its bulk the only thing preventing it from grabbing Trasken. Muttering the Rite of Unlocking in an attempt to appease the Machine Spirit and to let it open the door, Trasken managed to dive through before the beast could reach him.

The landing pad was just ahead; Van Hagan would most likely be waiting for a lander. He had to make it!

The door behind him exploded in a shower of plasteel and ferrite as the creature continued its pursuit.

"Ah feth…"

Trasken trained the autopistol on the creature and fired a quick four round burst before sprinting down the corridor towards the landing pad. The four bullets made no impact on the creature; the dead flesh simply swallowed each round. The charred and torn stump that had been its other arm still oozed a dark green liquid that stank and billowed as it trickled down the creature's body.

A roar filled the air; quite unlike that of the creature. Artificial, constructed and mechanical. It was the sound of engines taking off.

Trasken came out onto the landing pad just in time to see the orbital shuttle take off with Van Hagan and his assistant, leaving him behind.

"No…"

The creature burst through the wall, bellowing and oozing a putrid pus from the injuries Trasken had inflicted on it.

"So this is it, then? I get to die now." The guardsman raised the pistol at the daemonic creature and squeezed the trigger. "Fair enough, come on you piece of shit! COME ON!" The first clip was emptied as the creature closed the distance between them and the second had just been slammed into the pistol as the inhuman arm swatted Trasken away.

Crashing into the wall with a near sickening crunch, Trasken felt several bones in his body crack and shatter. His head swam in a mix of pain and delirium, fighting to stay awake in the face of the nightmare before him. Coughing due to the stench of the creature, the guardsman weakly raised the pistol and fired three time.

The first shot tore away a rotten chuck of shoulder.

The second shot missed the creature and hit the wall behind it.

The third shot was a bolt of light, sheering off half of the daemon's body with a crack of thunder and an overwhelming scent of ozone.

Dozens of timed, controlled shots tore into the daemon, followed by the roar of flamers as several armoured figures walked onto the landing pad. Each warrior was clad in dark green and black power armour, a white dragon's head fixed on their left shoulder and each was fixated on the daemon, seeking to kill it.

As the armoured warriors attacked the daemon, another armoured figure approached Trasken. Where the others were in black and green, this one was in dust coated white and a scarlet prime helix on his shoulder.

Trasken smiled as he saw the daemon reduced to a smouldering ruin, the world around him fading to black as the apothecary tended to his injuries.

The servitor poured a measure of amasec from the crystal decanter and returned to its alcove in the stateroom. Van Hagan stood by the reinforced view panel and watched Hemrien burn. The world was lost and by his order the Adeptus Astartes cruiser _Nocturne's Eye_ unleashed cyclonic warheads. The world buckled and cracked before splitting apart in a final, silent sundering.

His acolyte stood by the chamber's entrance, her head bowed in reverent silence as she made the sign of the Aquila for the lost servants of the Emperor. Van Hagan beckoned her forward with a tired wave of his hand as he sipped the amasec. "The Adeptus Astartes have reported in, my lord. They encountered the daemon and they were able to banish it."

Nodding with muted approval, the Lord Inquisitor took another sip of the liquor before turning to Regina. "There is something else?"

The acolyte bowed, avoiding the gaze of her master. "Yes, my lord. It appears that the daemon had been injured and they found the guardsman, alive, but gravely injured. Their apothecary has stabilised him, but they believe he needs full medicae attention."

Van Hagan smiled, that same smile that always terrified Regina. There was nothing human about that smile. It always reminded her of the dust serpents from her home world, their heads shaped in such a way that the last things their victims would see would be Death's smile. "Ah, he lives then? I wish I could say I was surprised, but given that young man has already survived so much, I doubt he would let himself die so close to the end of this tale. Contact the Salamanders; tell Captain Dac'tyr that we will take the guardsman as soon they are able to dock with us. Tell the captain my personal chirugeon will escort him to the ship."

"Of course, Lord Inquisitor."

"And Regina." Van Hagan walked across the stateroom to his personal cogitator and pressed several of the runes. "When you are done, make arrangements for the guardsman to be accommodated in one of the holding cells. I might find a use for him, but I will not risk him being tainted by the Warp. Have him placed in confinement and keep three gun servitors guarding him."

"Aye my lord." The acolyte bowed and turned to leave. Before she passed through the stateroom's door Regina turned back to Van Hagan. "And of the other survivors from his regiment?"

The Lord Inquisitor replied without looking up from the cogitator, only stopping to summon the servitor to refill his glass. There was no passion or emotion in his reply. "Have them brought to the Tricorn Palace. There, they will be tested, interrogated, and determined if they are fit to serve the Emperor once more."

"Praise be to the Emperor." Regina Corvanez intoned and left the chamber.

As she travelled along the corridors of the ship, the acolyte's mind kept mulling over what had happened over the last few days, she didn't know why she asked about the guardsmen, it simply seemed to slip out. For the past eight years, Inquisitor Van Hagan had trained her to observe, examine and determine. One thing he had never taught her was to just blurt out questions, especially questions she already knew the answer to.

The surviving Imperial Guardsmen would be rounded up, interrogated, found guilty of incompetence and then executed, less than a footnote in the Crusade.

As she entered the bridge, the executive officer glanced up from the data slate and nodded at the acolyte and beckoned her to an ensign operating a long range vox-caster. As the ensign opened a channel to the Salamanders' Captain, one more thought crossed Regina's mind. What would happen to this Trasken Vanghast? Would it be better to die in service of the Emperor and Humanity now?

_Only in death, does duty end._


End file.
